


A matter of self

by canadianhannah



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, LGBT, LGBTQ, Transgender, gerard way - Freeform, lgbtqa+, my chemical romance - Freeform, non-binary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:35:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianhannah/pseuds/canadianhannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was in a body, but it wasn’t mine, and it was. I was unhappy, but I wasn’t. I was female, and I was male. Most importantly, I was really fucking confused."</p><p>Gerard Way realises in his teen years that maybe he's not the person that he always thought he was, and maybe that's okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A matter of self

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, but I thought it'd be prudent to post it today as it's Trans Day of Visibility :)  
> I'm not trans, and I actually don't know anyone in real life who is, so I'm so sorry if I've got anything wrong or if I've offended anyone. Please let me know if I've made any major fuckups, because honestly this was meant to be like, a tribute almost.  
> I'm so dumb.

It was a pretty simple comment. I guess if he’d known the confusion he’d put me through with it, he wouldn’t have said it, but he _did_ say it, and I _was_ confused.  
“Y’know Gerard, you’re kinda pretty.” That was it. Some guy said it to me in the locker room. I scrunched up my nose.  
“Pretty?” I laughed, not quite knowing how to take it. With the guys I went to school with, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was trying to insult me. He shrugged.  
“Yeah, y’know. Pretty. Feminine. It’s kinda nice.” He said. He wasn’t flirting with me, just giving me a compliment. I pursed my lips. I’d never seen myself as pretty before. I mean, sure, I acted kind of flamboyant for a 15 year old, but Mom said that was just because I was more creative than everyone else – that’s why I liked art and singing and drama so much, too. Girly subjects.  
I squinted as I walked past the mirror, trying to see what he saw. I guess, if you looked past my chubby cheeks and the small fold of fat hanging over my skinny jeans, I was definitely feminine. I didn’t know about pretty, but I could probably pass for a girl. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled a little bit. Yeah, I think I’d be a good girl, actually.  
“C’mon princess, stop staring at yourself!” the coach called, and I smiled, feeling kind of warm at the nickname. _Princess._ It just sounded nice. Right, almost. I wondered why I’d ever taken that as an insult before. Princesses were beautiful and powerful, and that’s what I wanted to be too. It was as simple as that, I thought.

 

I was wrong. As time went on, I felt more uncomfortable in my skin. I hated him for even suggesting I was feminine, because if he hadn’t said it, maybe I wouldn’t notice the way I cringed every time I saw myself naked because _that just wasn’t me._ Not really. I tried to conceal my manhood in tight jeans, a tricky task, considering I was so well-endowed. It figured that a lot of guys would kill for what I had between my legs, and I couldn’t stand the sight of it. Not that I was completely sure I was female, of course, but having that _thing_ made it so final, like I didn’t even have a chance to even try to be the one thing that my body was screaming at me that I really was.  
Someone, maybe my Mother, commented that Mikey had a feminine jawline, and that I’d probably have one too if -  
If I was thinner. She didn’t have to say it, because I knew.  
I grew out my hair and lost 20lbs.

 

“God, you’re prettier than me, I swear!”  
There it was, that word again. I was 16, and my first girlfriend was complaining because I took longer than her to get ready. I bit my tongue and didn’t say that I took so long because I was trying to look like her. She could just wake up and be a woman, I had to try.  
I almost bit through my tongue, because that was the first time I’d admitted to myself that that’s what I wanted. Femininity, to be female, womanhood. It was all so exciting, and I felt a rush of “oh, god, yes” when I thought about it. My body disgusted me more and more, and I couldn’t keep the weight off so I kept looking like an ugly, fat guy instead of the beautiful woman I wanted to be. Or even a beautiful, feminine man. Was there even a difference?  
Apparently there was. When I told my girlfriend that I wished I looked as good as her, she dumped me because “nobody wants a tranny.”  
I didn’t cry because she left me, I cried because I didn’t know what the fuck was happening to me, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Even Mikey was pushed out, because I couldn’t have him thinking I was a freak, too. But that’s what I was. A fucking gender-confused freak. Why wasn’t it enough for me to just be a guy? Why was it so damn hard for me to want to like sports and women and wearing clothes that fit me? Instead it was music and tight clothes, and I’ll be fucked if I knew who I wanted to sleep with. Everybody. Nobody. It didn’t make a difference to me. I was a creature outside of physicality and spirituality. I didn’t belong anywhere, so I didn’t exist. I was in a body, but it wasn’t mine, and it was. I was unhappy, but I wasn’t. I was female, and I was male. Most importantly, I was really fucking confused.

 

The eyeliner came first. I found it when I was 17, mixed in with my pencils for art, and ran it across my hand, smiling at the smooth, black line it left. I guessed it was my Mother’s, and remembered the way it made her eyes pop when she wore it. She often said that her eyeliner was her warpaint, and that she could take on the world when she was wearing it. I chewed my lip – isn’t that what I wanted? Something that hid me away, made me invincible?  
I snuck away to the bathroom during a break and smeared it across my eyelids. It was messy and way too thick, but I smiled anyway because, fuck, I was so beautiful.  
I should have been scared to leave the bathroom, but I wasn’t. Ironically, I felt like I’d been wearing a mask my whole life, and I’d finally taken it off, and was showing everyone who I was. This was me.  
They didn’t agree. I was shoved into a locker and kicked in the stomach, the words ‘fag’ and ‘tranny’ thrown at me. I guess I knew what they meant, but they didn’t apply to me, right? That’s not what I was, because those were dirty, wrong words. I wasn’t dirty or wrong, I just wanted to be happy. Why couldn’t I just be fucking happy?  
I looked in the mirror again and smiled. The blood poured from my nose onto my lips, and one of my eyes was swollen and purple, but the eyeliner still clung to my eyes and made me look beautiful.  
I lost almost all of my friends that year. I nearly lost myself, too.

 

I found out when I was 18 that sometimes, alcohol can taste just like love. Mikey and our parents weren’t home, and I sat, red lipstick smeared across my lips, my eyeliner smudged across my eyes, and a bottle of Jack held tightly in my hand. I didn’t give a shit if they didn’t understand what I was. I didn’t care that I was confused and angry and scared, because I was drunk and I was happy to be drunk.  
I dropped a hand between my legs, hoping to jack off or something before everyone got home, then groaned in disgust. As if the universe was against me, I’d only become more well-endowed as I’d grown up, making it almost impossible to hide. Even baggy jeans overtop of skinny jeans didn’t stop the bulge from appearing, and I hated it. I hated me.  
It’s not even like I was female. I wasn’t anything except scared and alone. Nobody wanted me alive, and I didn’t want to be alive – not if living meant being confused about my identity every single fucking day. It wasn’t worth it.  
I sighed as I took another swig. I’d be dead by 25, anyway.

 

Except that I didn’t die. For some reason, by some fuck-up in the universe, I lived to see my 26th birthday. And then my 27th, and then another 10 after that. I’d met people and done things that I couldn’t ever believe. I’d saved and changed people’s lives. Everyone wants me, and most importantly, nobody gives a shit about what gender I am. Not my fans, not my friends, not my damn wife or my daughter. They all love me no matter what.  
I stand in front of the mirror, naked, looking at the body that I’d fixed and broken and abused so many times throughout my life. I’d beaten myself down to my worst. I’d hit rock bottom, and then resurfaced. I’m gaining weight now, but I’m happy because I was far, far too thin before. I don’t want to die anymore. I’m not afraid of my identity anymore. I’d realized a while ago that I was, at the core, a very, very feminine man. So feminine that if people sometimes mistook me for a woman, well, that was okay. More than okay. I encouraged it.  
My gender doesn’t define me, and it never has. I am who I choose to be, and I am happy.  
I hear the crowd cheering and smile to myself. I know they’re struggling, some of them, with the battle that I fought. I’ll say a few words, just so they know that I’ve got their backs, and that they are never, ever alone.  
I hear the first notes of the song, and I put a line of eyeliner on my eye. I’m ready.


End file.
